Casey Drops Blue

Kevin Miller

into the conversation
like an eye on a canvas tarp.
This pillbug of sky could be
a cornflower on an ice bear’s back.
For me blue often precedes chair
the way black aligns with Cadillac.
The blue chair is a lead place
where light sifts through veils,
sounds ooze like lava closing on sea.
This petrified man has no strings attached.
I look to the earth, to my green-eyed
daughter and her brown-eyed child.
I press my feet into thick humus,
know one drop becomes another.